


St. Fergus

by RisingPhoenix761



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Behavior, Chuck's Bathrobe, Crack, Crowley Being Crowley (Supernatural), Crowley Reverse Bang 2019, Crowley gets redemption, Fix-It, Flirting, Gen, God and the King of Hell walk into a bar, How much power does one soul contain?, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Light Angst, Sarcasm, This got a lot more philosophical than I intended, Who doesn't love snarky banter?, fluff if you squint, implied necromancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-01-31 19:43:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18598132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RisingPhoenix761/pseuds/RisingPhoenix761
Summary: Nothing comes back from the Empty, and nothing restores a lost soul. Not unless God himself steps in. But dying a do-gooder could work in Crowley's favor, because Chuck has an idea to get him into Heaven...if he will accept the terms.





	St. Fergus

**Author's Note:**

> I FINALLY GET TO POST THIS!!! My partner in crime for this was Slytherkins, who provided the lovely artwork and a prompt I couldn't pass up. Go check her out! She's awesome! (Also, if anyone wants to give yours truly a tutorial on posting links in the notes, hit me up. Until then, you get a lot of art before the fic. It's pretty art, though, so you'll be fine.)
> 
> And away we go!

* * *

 

The first thing Crowley noticed was the fog. Hard not to, considering it was all there was to notice. No landscape was at all discernible through the dense, gray mist; he couldn't even see the ground beneath him. Not even his own bloody feet, for…well, not for _God's_ sake, and damn sure not for Lucifer's, the smarmy git. For...for _Juliet's_ sake, then, he couldn't see his own bloody feet through all this damned fog. Where in all of Creation was he?

He took a cautious step forward and nothing dramatic happened, so he took a second, then a third, until he was moving blindly through the mist. This definitely wasn't Hell, he sincerely doubted it was Heaven, and it matched nothing he had heard about Purgatory. Was it another alternate dimension, then?

The silence was maddening, even more so than the fog, a vacuum of stillness that felt absurdly heavy on his ears. He called out, the standard _hello_ and _is anybody there_ , but couldn't even hear his own voice. Bloody marvelous. Didn't stop him from trying again, though, and again and again and--

“Okay, okay, relax! I'm here, I made it, just...cool it, okay?”

Crowley paused as a figure emerged from the fog, looking abashed and flustered. A tad sloven, wearing a striped bathrobe, sporting a scruffy beard and thick, curly hair, he looked at Crowley and gave him a fond smile. “Hello, Crowley.”

He tried to answer, but still couldn't hear anything, and the man lifted a beseeching hand. “All right, seriously, can you lower the volume a little, you don't need to...oh, right. My bad.” He clapped once, and the fog lifted along with the silence. They stood in a dingy bar, empty but for themselves. Scuffed stools, dusty booths, flickering neon, half-full bottles of booze lined up on the shelf, and an old jukebox in the corner cranking out CCR. It was far from Crowley's style, but the curly-haired man seemed at home there. “Much better,” he said, “you were saying?”

“God?” Crowley asked. “Really?”

“Yeah, really. Call me Chuck, if it's less weird.”

“ _Less_ weird,” Crowley scoffed. “After three centuries on Earth and several millennia in Hell, I kill myself to seal your firstborn in a wasteland, and you think calling you by your first name will make this less weird?”

Chuck shrugged. “I don't know, I thought it was worth a shot. And speaking of…” He wandered back behind the bar and set two glasses on the varnished counter. “Thirsty?”

“I don't get thirsty.”

“But you still drink. Craig, right?”

“Oh, did you write that, too?”

“Actually, I did. It was never officially published.” Chuck poured two whiskeys and set one on the other side of the bar. “Grab a stool. We need to talk.”

“I thought you were traveling the universe with your sister,” Crowley replied, taking a seat opposite.

“I was, then I heard I'm about to be a grandpa and figured I should probably step in and see what's going on.”

“So…” Crowley paused for a swallow of whisky, then went on, “you _knew_ about Lucifer's kid, and you did nothing?”

“What should I have done?” Chuck asked, sighing in exasperation. “Kill it? Maybe the mother?”

“You could have started by getting your brat under control.”

“How, Crowley? Should I kill my own son?”

“Why not? _I_ did.”

“Not hardly. You sent him back to his natural death.”

“Same difference. All for the greater good. So if the bloody King of Hell can pull off a sacrifice on that scale, then surely God Himself can.”

Chuck stared blankly at him. “Crowley. Have you ever heard of the Crucifixion? Does that ring any bells?”

Oh, right… Crowley opted for silence and another drink.

“Anyway,” Chuck went on, “redirecting. Though since you bring up the whole redemption of mankind thing, let's get to why you're here.”

“And where is ‘here,’ exactly?”

“Well, this,” he indicated the barroom at large, “is just where I go for some peace and quiet. Out there, though? That's complicated.” He swirled his drink aimlessly, the glass scraping against the bar while the liquid twirled inside. “What do you know about the Empty?”

Crowley sat up straighter on the barstool. “It's self-explanatory, don't you think?” he asked. “Empty. Nothing. Devoid of absolutely everything in imagination.” He recalled his journey through the mist and added, “A vacuum.”

“ _The_ vacuum,” Chuck corrected. “The expanse of nothingness that existed before the universe. Before Amara, even. What you saw out there,” he pointed to the fog visible through the windows, “even that is something. Fog, silence, it's all _something_ , and the Empty is just…” he shook his head and shrugged. “It's nothing.”

“You don't say.” Crowley drained the glass and slid it across the bar for a refill. “What does it have to do with redemption, then?”

“I'm glad you asked.” Chuck poured another drink and sent it back, leaning his elbows on the bar. “I have a proposition for you.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows and gave a sly smile. “Why, Charles,” he said, “at least try to romance me a little. Don't get me tipsy just to hook up.”

“Ha ha ha,” Chuck replied, “hilarious. As intriguing as that sounds, I had something else in mind.”

“Such as?”

“Getting you out of the Empty and into Heaven.”

Crowley paused again, too caught off guard to conceal his surprise. “Leave the jokes to me, Chuck,” he said, “Heaven is closed. Especially to demons. _Especially_ when said demon is the--”

“King of Hell, yeah, yeah, whatever.”

“Do you know how hard I worked to get where I was? Hell has a casting couch, you know! All the back room deals, the plots and alliances and double-crosses? And now look at me! Dead by my own hand, being a bloody do-gooder, in a bar in the damned Empty with the Creator of the universe, fresh back from holiday! This is absolutely fucking ridiculous!”

“Language, dude?” Chuck looked unimpressed by the outburst, tracing the wood grain on the bar with his finger. “And dying a do-gooder was one of the better things you could do. It makes you eligible for the Demon Trials.”

“Demon Trials. Right.” He lifted his glass and swirled the booze inside, watching the light pass through it. “Any relation to the Trials to close the gates of Hell?”

“Kind of. I, uh...I kinda lost the tablet with the finer details, but I remember my notes pretty well.”

Crowley stared at him, then set the glass back on the bar. “What on Earth are you talking about?”

Chuck leaned even farther across the bar, getting the eager and excited look unique to creators talking about their creations in his eyes. “After Metatron and I finished the angel and demon tablets,” he began, “I was bored and moody between projects. The kids were fighting, Lucifer had walked out, then the whole debacle in the Garden...well, while I was working out redemption for mankind, it hit me. Why not for demons, as well? Just in case?” His grin was enthusiastic and hopeful, and so _needy. Look at me! I'm an artist! Validate me!_

Crowley heaved a sigh. “Do you have any idea how idiotically optimistic that sounds?”

Chuck shrugged. “There's property insurance that covers sonic booms, for crying out loud. No harm in having a plan for something, even if you never use it.”

“So, what's the plan, then?”

“Purification. The restoration of your humanity. After that, the return of your soul.”

Easy to guess what all of that meant. A purging of his demonic nature, a reversal of the torture that stripped souls of what made them human, and voila. Born again. Easy to guess, but no doubt nowhere as easy as it sounded.

He studied the whisky in his glass and considered the proposal. On one hand, his pride. Choosing to allow everything he was, everything he had made himself into, to be scrubbed away like his climb to the top of the ladder never happened. On the other hand, the Empty. Nothingness. He had burned in hellfire, endured centuries on the rack, suffered worse things than most mortals could dream of, and what was that compared to nonexistence? He had lived the worst of Hell, but he couldn't even begin to imagine _nothing_. The harder he tried, the more he failed, and the more terrifying the idea became.

Drumming his fingers against the side of the glass, he asked, “This is that rock, hard place kind of scenario, isn't it?”

“If that's how you see it,” Chuck replied, taking a drink. “It's all up to you. If you stay in here, I can promise you it's going to suck ass before it's all over, but if you want to take your chances out there… Everything starts from nothing, you know.”

“I _was_ nothing. I came from _nothing_.”

“And you can go back to it if you step outside, but don't you want to be more? To be more than what you already were, even?” Crowley was silent, and Chuck pressed, “You could go down in history as the first demon to set foot in Heaven. Everybody loves a good redemption arc.”

“You can save the motivational speeches for Sunday school, mate. I'm still thinking.”

“Don't you want to know what Heaven looks like?”

“I've heard enough from your kids, thanks.”

“No, _your_ heaven. _Your_ slice of paradise. Everything that makes you truly happy and at peace.”

Well, now, that...that wasn't so easy to dismiss. Come to think of it, what _did_ make him happy that could possibly exist in Heaven? It was hard to believe that torturing his enemies and sticking it to anyone who ever crossed him made the cut.

Chuck raised his eyebrows in suggestion. “Aren't you even a _little_ curious?”

“Depends. Do I get a preview of these Trials?”

“Sorry, man. No sneak peeks. You just have to trust me.”

“I don't trust anyone, Charles.”

“Crowley, this is getting old…”

“And apparently, I have eternity.”

“Just yes or no.”

“Let me sleep on it.”

“Look.” His voice sharpened, and there was a steady sound in the distance like thunder as he fixed his eyes on Crowley. “I'm going out on a limb, here. Technically, I should have left you out there until you disappeared into the ether, but I'm offering you a second chance. And there's a long list of reasons why you don't deserve it.”

The thunder grew louder, rattling the bar as if in an earthquake. The walls shook, bottles fell off the shelves and smashed on the floor, and Crowley seized onto the counter as the quaking nearly knocked him off the barstool. Chuck stood steady, still staring him down. “You like deals,” he went on, “so here's mine for you. Take what I'm offering you, or get out of my bar. I won't say it again.”

“So--” Crowley reached out to snatch the bottle of whisky as it rattled across the edge of the bar, “there's no negotiating?”

Chuck heaved an aggrieved sigh and said, “Five, four, three, two--”

“Fine! Bugger it all, I'll do it!”

Chuck smiled quite pleasantly, and everything went still again; the jukebox rolled from “Fortunate Son” to “Have You Ever Seen The Rain” like nothing happened. “You're not going to regret this,” he said, extending his hand across the counter.

Crowley straightened and set the bottle on the counter, eyeing Chuck's hand. “You know, Charles, a handshake isn't my traditional means of sealing a deal...”

“We'll discuss it later.”

A shrug and a wicked grin, and Crowley accepted the hand offered. “We have a deal, then.”

“Good.”

And the bar was gone. They stood, hands still clasped, in an empty cathedral, the sun pouring through the stained glass windows painting the interior in jewel tones. It looked fairly standard, with faded pews, a choir loft, and a crucifix behind the pulpit, and was largely unimpressive.

Crowley glanced around the building, taking his hand back and moving a few steps away to survey the surroundings. “Lovely artwork,” he said, nodding to the windows. “Why are we here?”

“The purification part of the process,” Chuck replied. “Something holy to work against the demonic influence.”

“Wait…” Crowley turned back to Chuck, frowning. “You're not planning on shooting me up with righteous blood, are you?”

“No, are you kidding? I hate needles. I had something cleaner in mind.”

“Oh, marvelous. What is it?”

Chuck smiled and pointed down the nave to the front door of the sanctuary, and Crowley followed the direction to the font of holy water inside the entrance. He turned back to Chuck, who tucked his hands inside the pockets of his bathrobe. “Bottoms up.”

_“What?”_

“You heard me. First trial: drink from the fountain of righteousness. Or should it be ‘the sanctified,’ I don't know which sounds better… And I'm not sure about the religious angle, I might change that, but holy water _does_ work on demons, so--”

“Chuck,” Crowley broke in, “you want me to _drink it?”_

“Well, yeah. How else were we supposed to get it in you?”

“ _Why_ are we trying to get it in me?”

“Okay, let me start over.” Chuck clapped his hands together and held them at chest height, looking like he was preparing to give a lecture. “Purification. The general idea is to--”

“Oh, save it. Do you have any idea what that will do to me?”

“Yeah, Crowley, I do. Well, for the most part. The usual methods don't seem to work on you, though I hear Sam got pretty close to curing you. So, this just might work…”

“To what end?” Crowley stared down the nave of the church at the nondescript little font and tried to look more composed than he felt. True, there wasn't a lot that could kill him, and no demon ever died by holy water, but as far as sheer pain went, it was somewhere in the top five percentile. Even for him. And to actually _drink_ it?

“To scourge the darkness in you. Burn off what's unholy. You know how disinfectant works? Kinda like that.”

“Your first trial is getting me to swallow demon peroxide? You can't be serious. There's nothing about me that _isn't_ unholy.”

Chuck gave him one of those looks he found increasingly annoying, one of those I-know-better-than-you-but-it's-not-your-fault kind of looks. “Are you sure about that?” he asked. “You've been leaning more to the side of good for a long time, my friend. You were willing to give up everything you worked for, just to earn the Winchesters’ forgiveness. Dude, you _died_ to give them a chance at saving the day. You might not call it holiness, but there's something in you that's not totally rotten. That's what'll be left, and that's what will get you through these Trials.”

“Oh, you think so, do you?”

“I do, actually. There's good in you. I believe in you.”

Crowley stared at him, surprised. How long had it been since he heard that? In a complimentary fashion, that is? And he was already second-guessing his assessment of himself, too used to acting in his own interests to consider his motives from a moral standpoint.

Killing himself at the rift--one could argue it was the only way to trap Lucifer, so it was a necessary evil. Sure, there was the whole being dead thing, but if it meant getting one over on that feathery, angsty, pernicious bastard, then he'd call it a win. There was some selfishness there...even if he _did_ do it partly for the Winchesters.

Thwarting the apocalypse--self-preservation, mate. Same thing with killing Dick Roman and conspiring against Amara. He couldn't be too lily white if he was largely concerned with saving himself. If his personal goals happened to align with the good guys, then so be it.

But helping Sam to force out a rogue angel...destroying an ancient and _very_ powerful weapon to save Cas...all the times he put his reputation and his hold on his own throne on the line to come to Sam and Dean's aid...times when he had nothing to gain from coming through for them but he did it anyway…

Maybe Chuck was onto something.

He sighed. “The whole thing?”

Chuck nodded. “It wouldn't hurt.”

Bollocks.

Steeling himself, Crowley walked towards the font. This would hurt like hell, but that meant nothing. He was king of the place. He was _Crowley_. He did what he wanted, when he wanted, and right now, he wanted to drink a little holy water.

He conjured a cup with a snap of his fingers and dipped it into the water, careful to keep his hand clear, then toasted Chuck and said, “Cheers.” And he drank.

The first round was like molten lava pouring down his throat, liquefying him from the inside out. The shock of it made him cough and choke, the cup falling from his hand as he doubled over then fell to his knees, vocal chords too raw to scream. However painful he thought it might be, it was worse.

“The first drink is bound to be the worst,” Chuck assured him, moving closer and speaking encouragingly. “If you hadn't already been shot up with human blood, I'd say this had no chance of working, but there's something in you that's not completely demonic. It never went away even after you got clean. There's a _lot_ to burn off, but at least there will be something left.”

Was that supposed to be helpful? Still unable to speak, Crowley shot him the dirtiest look he could muster while on all fours, feeling his insides boil and sear. Chuck picked up the fallen cup and refilled it, offering it. “Want to keep going? Or are you finished?”

Crowley was strongly tempted to tell him to shove that cup straight up his arse, but there was the whole deep-fried vocal chords issue. Was it worth it, just to find out what his Heaven was?

Well, it was either this or the Empty, right?

He got to his feet again, one hand against the wall to steady himself, then took the cup and drained it.

The second cup was brutal, like rubbing salt into an open wound--or pouring disinfectant onto a festering one. He nearly collapsed again and Chuck reached out to help steady him, still talking. “That's it, you got this. Nice and steady. No need to rush, just take all the time you need, you're doing great…”

Crowley coughed and cleared his throat, his voice broken and hoarse. “Charles, do me the honor of shutting up.”

Chuck paused, then clapped him once on the shoulder and gave him a thumbs up, falling silent.

By the fourth round, there was only enough water in the font to half-fill the cup, and the scourge of it felt more like grain alcohol on the way down. Whether it really was burning off all the evil or he was just getting numb to it, he couldn't tell and didn't care. There was more and more of a hollowness inside, like the more he drank the more empty he became. Except for the faintest sense of...of... _feeling_ . Of true emotion. Of _life_ , the sort he hadn't felt since he went off the needle, corrupted as it was by an interrupted ritual that didn't cure him, but put a spark of humanity back in him.

 _Thanks, Moose_.

When there was no water left in the font, he stood leaning back against the wall, staring straight ahead, the cup held loosely in his hand. What little part of him that could feel anything was exhausted, and so _raw_ , like sandpaper across exposed nerve endings.

Chuck put a hand on his shoulder and steered him to the nearest pew, and he didn't resist, sinking onto the bench in a stupor. “How do you feel?” Chuck asked.

He shrugged, too out of it to take stock.

“ _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis-_ -”

“What the hell are you doing?” Crowley asked wearily.

“Just checking,” was the reply.

“Right.” A brief pause, then, “Why Latin? Of all the languages to use…”

“No idea, man. I don't know who made those rules, but it wasn't me.”

“Right.”

Now that he thought about it...how _did_ he feel?

That was a damn good question. Demons felt nothing as a general rule, and he had been nothing but a brain for three centuries. Perhaps that was the true test of humanity, emotion, and in contrast, his highest function was thought and his base nature was the perversion of it. He _felt_ nothing for three hundred years yet didn't concern himself with it, now he was aware of the void within himself, the absence of feeling and humanity.

Except for that spark. The brief exorcism did nothing to him, and that spark flickered with a meager light, like a single candle in a vast, empty cavern. And like a moth, he couldn't resist the urge to get closer.

“Hey,” Chuck said, breaking into his thoughts, nudging him with an elbow, “you alright in there?”

“I'm...adjusting,” he replied.

Chuck nodded solemnly. “It's quite an adjustment.”

“What do you know about it?”

“Are you serious? Who do you think invented feelings in the first place?”

“Oh, so, this is your fault.”

“What is?”

“This…” He trailed off, unsure how to put it into words. It was like the spark got a breath of oxygen but it was still too small, too fragile, to grow on its own. It would turn cold and fade, and then what? “What happens next?”

“We feed it. Everything you're feeling.”

Feed it until it burns. Got it. “How?”

“Feel more of it.”

Something about the way he said it raised immediate suspicion, and Crowley narrowed his eyes at him. “You mean all of it, don't you?”

Chuck nodded slowly, looking genuinely sorry for him. “'Fraid so. The good, the bad, and the ugly.”

“Of course. I had a feeling.” He smiled at the joke and squared his shoulders. “All right, then. Let's get on with it.”

“Whoa, hold up,” Chuck said, hand raised in a halting gesture. “Are you sure you're ready?”

“Charles, how much more ready can I get?” Crowley asked. “I'm completely hollowed out and I don't care for it in the slightest.” He paused, then added, “There, see? That's a feeling. Can't get more ready than that.”

“I have no idea what's going to happen.”

“...What?”

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to create a living, breathing human that can think and feel and do all that crazy stuff humans do? It's _hard!_ I'm still not sure I didn't screw you guys up! Once procreation was viable, it was easier to let you create yourselves!”

“I'm still not following you, mate.”

Chuck heaved a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Long story short, the more you feel, the more of your soul comes back,” he said. “That's not exactly how it works, but close enough. Everything that makes you human, shoved back up in you piece at a time. In the first place, that's like pouring all sorts of chemicals into a beaker at once; you have no idea how they'll react to each other, if they'll neutralize each other, if the whole thing will blow up in your face. Now imagine those chemicals have spent the last several millennia in an environment designed to make them as unstable and toxic as possible.”

“So…” Damn that holy water, it was like gargling antifreeze. Crowley cleared his throat and tried again. “You're putting my soul, the one I sold off that's been flayed and roasting in Hell for who knows how long, back?”

“Well, trying to. Strictly speaking, demons are grossly corrupted souls, like how orcs are the corrupted versions of elves, tortured into darkness and evil, and…” He trailed off, seeing the look on Crowley's face. “Not a Tolkien fan, then. Moving on. We're more trying to reverse the damage, which I've never done before, but since you're just occupying a vessel, that's where the whole ‘back in’ thing makes more sense--”

“Charles, stop.”

“--since you're a hollow thing inside another hollow thing…” He paused again, looking blank. “What?”

Crowley let out a deep sigh, feeling the spark flicker a little dimmer. He didn't know what would happen if it went out, but he doubted it was anything good. “You’ve had no idea what you're doing this whole time, haven't you?”

Chuck opened his mouth to respond, thought about it, then closed it again.

“That's what I thought. I'm not angry, I'm just disappointed.”

“Cut me a break here, I'm trying to save you.”

“A bang-up job you're doing, MacGyver.”

“I'm an artist! We _never_ know what we're doing! We just vomit ideas and hope one of them works out!”

“Then how about next time you're just vomiting, you--”

A flicker. Not just the spark, but _everything_. No sound, no light, no pain, no anything. A brief glimpse into nothing, before everything came rushing back in.

When the cathedral came back into focus, Chuck had one hand clutching his shoulder and the other cradling his head, peering into his face like a doctor examining a patient. “Crowley,” he said urgently, “you still with me? Come on, man, answer me.”

“I'm…” What word was he looking for? Speech was slippery in his grasp, thought falling away a little at a time, word and memory and self and _spark--_

“Snap out of…to the Emp...feel somethi…”

Darkness and no sight to see it, silence and no hearing to understand it, a void with no discernment to recognize it as such…

“...owle...Cro...ey…”

Then... _something_ , a soft touch, the feeling of warm lips pressed against his triggering thousands of memories, the sensation miles away but strong enough to anchor him and pull him back from _nothing_ , and when sight came back he saw Chuck was kissing him.

He drew back, feeling surprised and caught off guard and--wait, he was _feeling_ . “Charles,” he said, sounding confused, _feeling_ confused, “what on Earth are you doing?”

“You're falling back into the Empty,” Chuck replied, unrepentant. “You've got to start feeling, Crowley. Something, anything, that's how you hold back nothing.”

“What if it goes wrong?”

“‘Wrong’ is still something, dude.”

Fine, but...what? What did he feel? Years and endless years of emptiness that felt so much like the Empty, casting its long shadow over him like he was destined for it all along--

Fear. _That_ thought filled him with fear, that for everything he had done, there was only nothingness waiting for him. Terror fanned the spark within him, waking the fire inside it back from cold ember. But what _had_ he done? Those memories resurrected by Chuck's kiss, thousands and thousands of deals and as many souls as he claimed for Hell, putting them on the same road he himself walked, bound for torment and evil and leading into the void he was running from. Terror bred horror...remorse...empathy...he was the instrument that damned all of them to this, and there was nothing he could do to fix it...pain bloomed in the midst of his remorse, pain for the pain he caused and couldn't undo. Chuck was right, he didn't deserve to be saved, not after everything he had done.

The cathedral blurred around him and for a moment he was certain the Empty had him, but there was a hot, sharp, stinging sensation in his eyes, and he understood what was happening. How long had it been since he cried? Not since becoming a demon and the emotions that led to it were stripped from him. Not since he was still Fergus, a two-bit tailor abandoned by his mother and despised by his only child. They knew even then he was worthless, his very existence causing nothing but grief and heartache. He'd always been Crowley even when he was Fergus, always hurting someone, never deserving salvation and never knowing family.

_Family cares about you, not what you can do for them._

But did anyone ever care about him?

“Chuck,” he said, the word a broken whisper, “why me? Of all demons and corrupted souls...there were plenty who were something. They had people who loved them, they shouldn't be in Hell or the Empty. Why the man no one ever cared about? Why save a nobody from nothing?”

Chuck gripped his shoulder, eyes full of compassion. “First of all, are you sure no one cares?” he asked. “You'd be surprised, you know. Second, it works the other way, too. _You_ care, and that counts.”

“No...I never cared about anyone...just myself…”

“Yeah, you did. You cared, you just had your head too far up your ass to admit it.”

Grief hung heavy on his shoulders, filling him, making him wish he'd just walked out of that bar and into oblivion. So what if he cared? It was too late. He was dead and past the point where caring did anyone any good.

“Crowley.”

Chuck's voice was soft and kind, his hand resting comfortably and comfortingly on Crowley's shoulder. “I didn't want you to feel it all at once,” he said, “the entire scope of the human experience in less than a minute is...a little much. All the fear, anger, pain, regret, it can break you. You know that as well as anyone.

“And then there's hope, joy, courage, peace. _Love_ . Demons don't remember how that feels. I think that's the real key to humanity, you know. To feel love, to _act_ with love. Try feeling into that one--well, _more_ of it. I think you're ahead of that curve, whether you think so or not.”

Love. Okay, then.

He'd loved his son, he supposed, enough to try and save him from his fate. He grew fond of Kevin, as well, the poor lad. But _love?_ Well…

Maybe it was love that drove him to save Cas, to help Sam save himself… It wasn't that long ago he was trying his best to kill both Winchesters and their angel, yet it was even more recently he refused to move against them. And after so long of looking out for himself, first and foremost, he gave his life for them. _Family cares about you_. Well, he cared about them, his family. Acting with love, for their sake.

Next to him on the pew, Chuck smiled. “Nice job, pal,” he said. “I knew you had a soul in there somewhere.”

Tears were still pouring down his face, but there was fire burning inside him, hope and pain and ecstasy and loss and love. Everything he hadn't felt in longer than he could remember. But that wasn't the same thing as having a soul, was it? “Do I?”

“Hard to believe, isn't it?”

He smiled faintly, the knowledge crashing into him like waves rising higher and higher up the shore. He could have laughed about it, even with tears still in his eyes. A soul. He had his soul.

Not bad for the former King of Hell.

“I'll admit, I thought I was going to lose you for a second,” Chuck said, squeezing his shoulder before releasing him, his grin stretching from ear to ear. “First drafts never turn out the way you plan. But...wow. We did it!” He laughed, then leaned back in the pew, looking elated and relieved. “I gotta say, for as bad as it looked like that would turn out, that was a lot less messy than creating Adam and Eve!” He heaved a sigh, still grinning. “How do you feel?”

Crowley sat in silence, too stunned to speak at first. It was overwhelming, to say the least. The fear and pain still roiled inside him, but the more he focused on the love, the stronger it grew, the more exhilarated he felt. _Family_. He loved those boys enough to die for them, the flannel-bound idiots who always seemed to have the fate of the world on their shoulders. The closest thing to family he ever had, enough to help him redeem himself, quite literally in the eyes of God.

 _Wait until they find out how to cure demons_.

He finally laughed at the thought, and it felt wonderful to do it, to _feel_ it rather than process it. “Chuck, I don't...I don't know what to say.”

“Adjusting?”

“You could say that again.” It was strange and amazing; he felt like he could do something nonsensical, like fly or walk on water or some kind of miracle. Why not? He had a soul, and anything was possible. Maybe that _was_ the key to humanity--feeling. Feeling _everything_ , the good, the bad, and the ugly. Everything that made you wish you were dead, and what made you feel alive.

As the thought occurred to him, he asked, “Am I alive?”

Chuck looked thoughtful as he replied, “In a sense, I guess you are. You're a soul, and those don't really die. They just change. You left your body at the rift, your essence went to the edge of the Empty in its distorted form, and now here you are. The purest, most you version of you that ever was.” His brow furrowed slightly and he added, “You're basically pure sarcasm now.”

“You forgot sex appeal,” Crowley corrected.

“Arrogance.”

“Genius.”

“Drama.”

“Style.”

“I ruined you, after all.”

“Come, now, Charles, I've never been better.”

“Are you sure? You haven't seen your Heaven yet…”

And that felt different as well. Skepticism was replaced with curiosity, and the first, faint inkling of what his slice of paradise might look like…

It was just a shame he couldn't have a little more of the real thing.

“So.” Chuck nudged him slightly with one elbow. “You ready to go?”

A deep breath, then a short nod. “I guess so.”

“Good. I can drop you off on my way to meet Amara.”

Crowley made a gesture of passive acknowledgment, then frowned while beside him, Chuck got to his feet. “You're going straight back to your sister after this?” he asked.

“She wants to try creating her own universe,” Chuck answered, “and I promised I'd help her out. She's never started from scratch before.”

“But what about _your_ creation?”

“What about it?”

“You abandoned them! Your spawn is throwing a tantrum and breaking your toys, you likely have a nephilim grandson by now with the power to do... _you_ only know what, Hell is unstable, Heaven itself isn't much more secure, and you're going on sabbatical? _Again?”_

Chuck sighed, looking resigned. “Look, Crowley, I've _tried_ stepping in. Like, a lot. My creation is determined to self-destruct and nothing I can do to correct it pans out. You know better than I do, there's people better suited to hold it together. Take Sam and Dean, for instance--”

“You've screwed them over time and again,” Crowley interrupted. “They've _had_ to hold it together because you won't. Because _someone_ has to. Someone always has to step in and clean up your mess while you sit back whinging about how ‘you're an artist, you never know what you're doing.’ For an all-powerful Creator, you're pathetically incompetent.”

“Whoa, hold on a minute,” Chuck broke in, looking agitated. “You need to chill, man. I never said I was perfect--”

“I'll drink to that,” Crowley agreed, rising from the pew and walking away.

“Where are you going?”

“Back.”

_“Back?”_

“You bloody well heard me.”

“Crowley--” There was the sound of hurried footsteps and an anxious tugging at his sleeve as Chuck tried to regain his attention. “You're dead. Like, _dead_ dead. You don't ‘go back’ from that.”

“Technically, Charles,” Crowley paused and turned, delicately removing Chuck's grip from his sleeve, “watch the suit, mate. _Technically_ , I'm a soul. Not just pure me, pure _energy_. Power like that, I can do anything I damn well please. Manifest, move between dimensions, alter realities…”

“Alter--are you _crazy?_ You can't screw with that, that's cosmic consequences you're talking about!”

“Oh, I'm aware. No need to fuss, darling, I'm thinking something much less complicated. A simple resurrection should suffice.”

“Resurr--” Chuck groaned and pressed his hands to his face, scrubbing his hands through his hair. “Crowley, you need more than energy to pull that off. You have to harness that power, channel it, work your will on it. You're not a demon anymore, you don't have the juice to manipulate energy like that.”

“Oh, bollocks,” Crowley drawled, unimpressed. “There's me outsmarted, isn't it? Guess it's back to the old drawing board, then. Never thought I'd say this, but good thing my mother is my mother.”

Chuck frowned, then closed his eyes as he understood. “Rowena's a witch,” he sighed, “she taught you a few tricks…”

“And I've picked up a few more,” Crowley added helpfully. “No sense wasting resources, yeah?”

“So, what? You use your own soul to power a spell to bring yourself back to life?”

“Yep. Pretty much.”

“Crowley…” Chuck's concern was undeniable, sketched in every line of his face. “Come on, man. Think about this for a second. You're right, Heaven _is_ closed. Soon enough, there won't be enough angels to keep the lights on, and it'll be closed for good. Locked down for eternity, nothing else getting in or out. If you don't go now, you might _never_ go.”

“I'm willing to risk it.”

Chuck stared at him, looking lost for words.

Crowley reached out and patted him on the shoulder. “Listen, mate, I appreciate what you've done for me,” he said, “truly, I do. But I'm of a mind to see this as a do-over rather than an endgame, and since you don't seem concerned with those louts you talked me into feeling my feelings for, I guess I'll just have to step in, won't I?”

Chuck sighed, sounding old and tired and resigned. “And when you die? What if you're locked out? You're a ghost stuck in the veil for eternity--”

“Oh, that _does_ sound amusing…”

“--or, worst case scenario, you wind up back in Hell.”

“Um, hello? King?”

“And when you die then, guess what? Straight to the Empty. And I'm not bailing your ass out next time.”

“That's a pity, Charles. I'll just have to have a heart-to-heart with Mummy and learn how to live forever.”

“Crowley, you've _got_ to be kidding me…”

“So you mean you're going to get over yourself and grow a pair, get your kids in line, and take some of the weight off your creations in general? Moose and Squirrel in particular?”

Chuck didn't reply.

Crowley didn't bother hiding his smirk. “I hate it when I can predict the ending ahead of time,” he said. “It's been a privilege, Chuck, and if you ever want to fine tune your demon trials, I'd be honored to lend some insight. But I'll have to pass on Heaven, thanks.” He offered his hand and shrugged. “No hard feelings?”

With a defeated shake of his head, Chuck mirrored his shrug and shook his hand. “Whatever, man. You're on your own.”

“I think I can handle it, darling. I'd hate for you to keep your sister waiting.”

Chuck gave him an exasperated look. “Crowley--”

“No, I understand completely. Family. You come through for them when they need you, right?”

A slow smile spread across Chuck's face. “You know, Crowley, if I didn't know better, I'd say humanity made you sentimental.”

“Don't _ever_ say that,” Crowley replied. “I've still got a reputation, you know.” He gave Chuck a final clap on the shoulder and added, “Give Amara my regards.”

“Yeah. She still hates you, you know.”

“Whatever. Now if you'll excuse me…” He left the sentence hanging, glancing around the church for anything that might be useful while wracking his brain for a spell.

“Hey, Crowley?”

“Yes, Charles?”

“Good luck, man.”

It wasn't the tone of sincerity, but the note of pride in Chuck's voice that made Crowley turn to respond, but Chuck was already gone. Crowley smiled, then got back to work. Resurrection didn't happen on its own time, and he was bored with being dead.

* * *

 

In hindsight, he could call it the third Trial.

It took time. A lot of it. The apocalypse world almost finished him off after he finally left the spiritual plane and returned to the physical realm, but “almost” didn't count, and he needed a body to return to. Working a resurrection spell as pure energy, in a wasteland all but devoid of useful components, on a body that was certainly less than fresh, was easily one of the most difficult things he ever did. He lost count of his failed attempts and started to worry he would burn off his soul before it could power a spell that worked.

Until finally, _finally_ , he felt a heartbeat in his chest and breath in his lungs, and a weight that wasn't heaviness, just a shift from intangible to solid. His joints were stiff and sore, his muscles ached, the stab wound in his side hurt worse now than when he actually stabbed himself, and the only thing more maddening than the sudden hunger pangs was the thirst, begging for the relief of even a single drop of water.

He was alive.

No time to celebrate yet, though, with a rift to open and another dimension to hop into. After patching himself up--and a few necessary cosmetic touch-ups, since it wouldn't do to be walking around looking like a moldering corpse, no matter how recently he was one--he set to work with renewed urgency; there _was_ an angel war going on, after all. And after opening a new rift, and nearly obliterating himself in the process, he returned to the world of the Winchesters.

On the other bloody side of the country.

However he felt about his restoration and resurrection, those demon powers were damned convenient. With teleporting beyond his abilities, it was another arduous journey to a small town in Kansas, and an underground stronghold only a handful of people knew existed. It took even more time to magic his way in past the warding, but compared to the hoops he jumped through to make it that far, it was child’s play.

The bunker was empty, and he felt...relieved. It was easy not to think too seriously about what he was working towards while he was, well, working. But trekking across the country like he was Alexander frigging Supertramp, walking, hitchhiking, and braving the previously unknown horror of public transit, he had plenty of time to consider all the gritty, subtle nuances.

He had grown to love Sam and Dean against all odds, against his own nature. He felt like a soft, sappy, sentimental dolt for saying as much, if only to himself, but he wouldn't be in their home base, freshly humanized and fresh back from the dead, if he didn't love them. That, however, didn't necessarily mean anything to them. Crowley and the Winchesters were on opposite sides of the conflict too often, had tried to kill each other too many times; he wouldn't have needed the power of love to save his hide if he hadn't let Lucifer free in the first place. A fact that was sure to cross their minds.

He didn't even know what had happened since the standoff at the rift. They could have been killed a hundred times each by now, and with Death gone and the Reapers in charge, it would only take dying once for them to be gone for good. Even Cas could have died.

Everything he had gone through to come back from the Empty, for a family that had already rejected him once, and it could have been for nothing.

He had to try, though. _Had_ to. If he was going to escape the Empty and turn his back on Heaven, he'd be damned--again--if he wasn't going to see this through to the end.

But this _waiting!_

They were on a hunt, he reasoned, they would be back sooner or later, and he sat in the war room watching the stairs, listening for the doors, waiting, worrying, wondering…

Until finally, the familiar rumble of an engine outside, the twin creak and slam of car doors, and he was relieved and terrified and hopeful and how was it possible to feel all of it to such a degree all at once?

They descended the stairs, talking between themselves, not noticing him at first. Sam's hair was a little longer, there were new lines in Dean's face, and they both carried themselves as if there was even more weight than ever on their shoulders...but one look at them, and the sentimental dolt in him knew everything was worth it for the sight of them standing there.

The sarcastic, arrogant, dramatic streak in him knew it was worth it to see the look on their faces, shocked stupid.

Dean spoke first, the disbelief in his voice beyond question. _“Crowley?”_

He gave them his most charming smile. “Hello, boys.”

It was a long time coming, but at long bleeding last, he felt like he made it home. And that felt like an ending even Chuck Shurley could be proud of.


End file.
